


Cute But Crazy

by luminousbeings



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Jedi!Spock, M/M, all things are avoidable but death and taxes and Jim’s criminal history, being unwillingly attracted to the smuggler currently ripping you off, flirting in dirty dive bars, incredible amounts of nerdery, princessofalderaawesome!Uhura, spacepirate!Jim, stillcranky!Bones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 23:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6541786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminousbeings/pseuds/luminousbeings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You do not appear surprised by my claim to be a member of the Jedi Order," Spock remarks, tilting his head. "An Order thought to be extinct for nearly two decades."<br/>Jim leans back and gives him a lazy grin. “With a face like that, you can be whatever you want.”<br/>There’s a flicker of something Jim can’t quite catch before Spock’s expression flattens back to nothing. Well. He has the Jedi dispassion down, at least.     </p><p>You know that Star Trek/Star Wars crossover everyone else had too much dignity to write? This is that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Cantina

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching Star Wars yesterday and this just kind of happened, I’m so sorry

“We have a potential customer,” Bones tells him as he and their two would-be clients, two Vulcans - one older, one younger - sit down next to him at the bar table in the corner.

“Oh yeah?” says Jim, like he’s surprised.

More specifically, like he hasn’t been watching them for the past ten minutes. It hadn’t escape his notice when some old Vulcan dude approached Bones when went to get them more drinks. It only took him a split-second, though, to deduct that the guy was no threat to them. And with any luck they could get some money out of it, too.

So Jim had sat there, sipping his whiskey and watching them talk (definitely business; Jim knows Bones’s Business Face), when the old Vulcan pointed over his shoulder toward someone at the bar. Jim followed the gesture and…

And _hello_ , gorgeous.

Jim’s only got a view from behind from where he’s sitting (which is to say, the best view), but if he had to guess he’d say the guy’s just a kid—or, well, just a kid for a Vulcan, which is to say about Jim’s age. He looked ridiculously ( _adorably_ ) out of place with his perfect posture and clean clothes and lithe figure.

 _The front’s probably even better_ , Jim thought, staring at the kid over his glass, half-hoping he’d sense his gaze and turn around.

It seemed like he wasn’t the only one whose attention had been grabbed by the beautiful kid at the bar, though. He watched as the Greohban next to the Vulcan starts saying something clearly not very friendly (probably jealous, poor guy). The Vulcan responded briefly, obviously something unsettled but polite, and then a Human was tapping him on the shoulder and saying something.

Well, at least Jim couldn’t disagree with their tastes.

Of course, that’s when it all went to hell, and suddenly the Human was pulling a phaser, and then Jim was on his feet without really thinking about it (to do what, he didn’t even know), and then the older Vulcan—the one who’d been talking to Bones—intervened, and then there was a flash of light and two quick whirring sounds, almost like a deluminum propellor, and by the time the smoke cleared, the kid’s attackers were dead.

So, yeah, Jim looked a lot closer at the older Vulcan after that. His first thought was, of course, sugar daddy. But then he realized that he and the younger Vulcan shared such a striking resemblance… They could almost be the same person. He’s probably the father. Grandfather, even. Or maybe uncle?

Equally interesting was the weapon he’d used. That bright flash, and that sound…

He’d almost say it was a lightsaber, but those don’t _exist_ in real life.

Still, going from the glimpse he gets as the two of them sit down next to him… It sure _looks_ like a lightsaber.

“And who’re you?” he asks, leaning back.

“I am Spock,” says tall-pale-and-gorgeous. Jim was right, the view’s even better from this angle, and getting it all so close up and personal? Rawr.

The old Vulcan doesn’t say anything, which is weird, but to each his own, right? So Jim goes on ahead.

“Jim Kirk,” he says, lifting his chin in greeting. “Captain of the Enterprise. Where you headed?”

“The Alderaan system,” says the old Vulcan.

“And you’re looking for the Enterprise to take you there.”

“Indeed,” says the old Vulcan. Geez, he talks like he’s about ten billion years old. “If it is a fast ship.”

“Fast ship?” Jim repeats, incredulous. “You’ve never heard of the Enterprise?”

The old Vulcan looks politely confused. “Should I have?”

“It’s the ship that made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs!”

“That is fascinating information, Captain,” says the old Vulcan, “as there is no way to complete the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs. The route is fifteen parsecs long.”

Jim looks at him. And then…

And then he can’t keep the grin from spreading across his face. “You’re not completely stupid. That’s good news for you, ‘cause I don’t take completely stupid passengers. In my line of work it can make the difference between a good smuggler and a dead one.”

“We are gratified to have passed your test,” says the old Vulcan mildly. “Now I am curious to see whether you meet _our_ requirements.”

Jim looks at him, eyebrows raised. “I’ve outrun Federation starships—not the local bulk-cruisers, mind you. I’m talking about the big Corellian ships now.” From their expressions it’s obvious they have no idea what he’s talking about, and Jim sighs. “She’s fast enough for you, old man. What’s the cargo?”

“Only passengers. Myself, the young one, two droids, and no questions asked.”

Now doesn’t that sound suspicious. He’s been in too many tough spots with the authorities to not want at least an idea of what he’s dealing with here. “What is it? Some kind of local trouble?”

The Vulcan tilts his head. “Let us just say we would like to avoid any Federation entanglements.”

Ah. Jim understands _that_ perfectly. “Well, that’s the trick, isn’t it? And it’s going to cost you something extra.” He considers his prey for a moment. They’re obviously desperate, obviously running from something. Most likely it’ll end in nothing but a couple days with some delicious eyecandy; then again, people get killed for stuff like this. He’s more than justified in milking them for all they’re worth. If the price is too much they can always find someone else.

Though that _would_ be a shame, he thinks, glancing again at Spock.

“Ten thousand in advance,” he says at last.

“Ten thousand credits,” Spock repeats. It’s the first time he’s spoken. “For that price we could purchase a new starship.”

Jim licks his lips, leans forward, looks him right in the eye. It’s half-flirtation, half-challenge. “But who’s gonna fly it? You?”

Spock’s eyes flicker from his mouth to his eyes. “Indeed. My piloting skills are significantly above average. There is nothing obligating us to entertain your preposterous notions of—”

“We haven’t that much money with us,” the old Vulcan interrupts. “But we could pay you two thousand now, plus fifteen when we reach Alderaan.”

 _Seventeen_. Well, that’s… that’s _astronomical_. They could definitely buy themselves a new ship with that money, and a nice one at that.

Who _are_ these guys?

Well. Whatever. “No questions asked” they said. Whoever they are, they’ve certainly piqued Jim’s interest. And his wallet.

“Okay,” he says. “You guys got yourself a ship. We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready. Docking bay ninety-four.”

“Ninety-four,” the old Vulcan confirms.

“I must object—” Spock starts.

“Kirk is an excellent pilot,” the older man replies. “Not entirely trustworthy as an individual, perhaps. But he will guarantee our safe arrival at Alderaan.”

Bones stiffens with anger beside him, but hey, it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. Jim gives his customer a smile with far too many teeth, more shark than Human. “You don’t know anything about me, old man.”

The old Vulcan looks at him.

“You used to be a Starfleet captain,” he says, very quiet. “You are currently a fugitive and a smuggler with a truly impressive price on your head. The Federation seems to be rather desperate to reclaim you.”

Spock is staring at him.

Jim’s smile slides right off his face.

“You’ve done your research,” he says flatly.

“Why were you dismissed from Starfleet?” Spock asks, rather judgily.

“I wasn’t dismissed,” Jim snaps. “I resigned.”

“Then why are you now a fugitive?”

Jim shrugs. “Don’t ask me.”

“I am at a loss as to why you would presume to trust an unsavory and untrustworthy Human such as this one,” Spock says to the old man, as if Jim and Bones aren’t there. “As is to be expected from a place like this.” Which, you know, _ouch_. But Jim has to admire his honesty.

“Why you—” Bones starts, but Jim puts out a hand to stop him.

“It’s fine, Bones.” He looks at Spock. “Let’s just say I saw some stuff I wasn’t supposed to see. Some stuff that turned me off being a Federation drone forever. When I didn’t fall in line like the rest of the sheep, they set out to keep me quiet in a more permanent way.”

Spock is silent for a while, seeming to consider that.

“It appears,” he says at last, “the Federation has been conducting a great deal of disagreeable undertakings. Your mistreatment is only one more example of their injustices. It is past time that their tyranny was brought to an end.”

Jim laughs, surprised and strangely pleased by his matter-of-fact idealism. “Big words from a moisture farmer.”

The reaction that gets is more satisfying than it probably should be—surprise, and something else, like a suppressed indignation. “How—?”

“Well,” Jim drawls, enjoying the tiniest flicker of impatience in the Vulcan’s expression. “You’ve lived on this rock your entire life—it’s a good enough guess. Almost everybody’s a moisture farmer, considering ninety-five percent of the planet is sand.”

Spock raises one eyebrow. “And the other five percent?”

“These venerable folks,” says Jim, indicating the sketchy dive bar. “Lowlives, criminals, scum of the earth.”

“You appear to be very comfortable in this environment,” the Vulcan notes dryly, but not without some amusement, and Jim grins.

“You’re just bitter ‘cause I’ve got you pinned.”

“No,” says Spock, to his surprise. “You do not. I am no moisture farmer. I am training as a Jedi knight.”

Jim blinks.

A Jedi knight, huh. Well. That’s a new one.

Still, Jim once ferried a girl who thought she was a wombat. You meet all sorts on this job.

Makes for the most interesting sex, anyway, in his experience.

“You do not appear surprised by my claim to be a member of an Order thought to be extinct nearly two decades ago,” Spock remarks, tilting his head curiously.

Jim leans back and gives him a lazy grin. “With a face like that, you can be whatever you want.”

There’s a flicker of something Jim can’t quite catch before Spock’s expression flattens back to nothing. Well. He has the Jedi dispassion down, at least.

“Can’t imagine the Federation would be too happy to have a Jedi on their hands,” Jim remarks casually, and Spock stiffens. Jim waves it off. “Don’t worry, I’ll still help you. I don’t care about the _why_ s as long as I get my money.” This is when he notices the entrance of two—no, three—oh, holy Jesus, _four_ imperial stormtroopers. They head over to the bartender, and Jim knows they’re asking all the wrong questions. “Speaking of,” he murmurs, jerking his chin toward the bar. “Looks like somebody’s beginning to take an interest in your handiwork.”

Spock moves to turn, but at the same moment the bartender point toward them.

“ _Get down_!” he hisses, and pulls the Vulcan under table.

The floor is sticky and there’s barely enough room for both of them between the table and Bones and the old guy’s legs, but they manage. Sure enough, he can see the stormtroopers heading in their direction

“What—” Spock starts, and Jim slaps a hand over his mouth. He stiffens in surprise.

Jim puts a finger to his lips. Spock narrows his eyes but nods. Jim removes his hand, oddly reluctant to end the contact.

They watch the stormtrooper’s legs pass slowly by the table, shoulder-to-shoulder, their hearts pounding, trying to take slow, shallow breaths.

Finally, they leave. Jim waits until he can’t hear the familiar heavy steps of their armor, and then…

“Out the back door,” he mutters to Spock, who stares back at him. “ _Go_! We’ll meet you there. Docking bay—”

“Ninety-four,” the Vulcan finishes. And then he’s climbing out and he and the old guy are disappearing into the crowd.

“ _Seventeen thousand_!” Jim breathes when they’re gone, settling back into his seat. “Those guys must be either stupid or crazy. I’m gonna go with crazy, ‘specially the younger one. Cute, but crazy.” He grins at that. “Just my type.”

Bones rolls his eyes. “Is there anything that _isn’t_ your type?”

“Good point,” says Jim agreeably. And then, “You know what would be really hot?”

“No,” Bones mutters. “But I imagine you’re about to tell me.”

“Seducing a Jedi.”

Aaand yup, Bones looks about 170.1% done. “Jim…”

“Or someone who thinks he’s a Jedi, anyway.”

“Jim, I swear to God—”

“C’mon, think about it!” He throws an arm around his friend’s shoulders and waves a hand dramatically in front of them. “Beautiful guy, recently embarked upon an ancient training involving a vow of celibacy, meets devilishly handsome space pirate… It’s like the plot of a romance holovid!”

“More like a porno,” Bones grumbles.

“Even better!”

His First Mate groans.

———

He’s finally gotten Bones out of the cantina ( _supposedly_ so he can work on the ship before takeoff but _really_ so Jim can finish off his drink without his First Mate’s Judgmental Eyebrows of Doom getting in the way) and is just about heading out when he spots an old buddy of his.

Which is never a good thing.

 _Maybe he’s not here looking for me,_ Jim hopes fervently. _Maybe he won’t recognize—_

“Going somewhere, Kirk?”

Dammit. 

“Finnegan!” he says cheerfully. “Long time no see!”

“Yeah,” says Finnegan, with a smile just as fake as Jim’s own. “Why don’t we sit down? Catch up a bit.”

“Actually…” Jim starts, before he feels something hard and cold being pressed into his side. A phaser. “Actually I find your argument very compelling.”

The phaser shoves harder into his ribs, forcing Jim to back up into his old seat. Finnegan sits down in the chair across from him.

“Admiral Marcus wants to talk to you,” he says, amiable enough.

Jim smiles mirthlessly. “I’ll bet he does.”

“Oh, and does he,” says Finnegan, his voice almost conversational, despite the phaser pointed at Jim’s chest. “He’s put a price on your head so huge every bounty hunter in the galaxy will be looking for you. I’m lucky I found you first.” He raises an eyebrow. “Of course, if _you_ want to give me that money instead I might just forget I ever saw you.”

“How much?” Jim asks, out of pure morbid curiosity.

“Six million.”

He almost chokes. “Six mill—that’s insane!”

“That’s life as a bounty hunter. And this?” He indicates the phaser. “This is my own special touch, because your bounty can be collected with you either dead or alive. I just prefer dead.”

“Aww,” says Jim. “You always say the sweetest things.”

Finnegan scoffs. “I can’t believe Marcus is still extending the offer to reinstate you.”

He _is_? The smuggler rolls his eyes. “You’re kidding.”

“Wish I were, but no. All you have to do is promise to keep your mouth shut and follow orders, and you could come back and work for the Admiral tomorrow.”

“Over my dead body,” Jim mutters.

Finnegan smiles a nasty little smile. “If you insist,” he says, and his finger tightens on the trigger and—

_Bang!_

—And Finnegan slumps forward, his phaser clattering to the floor.

He doesn’t move.

Jim pulls his own smoking phaser from beneath the table and gets to his feet, ignoring the sudden silence, the other patrons looking on in amazement and a little bit of fear.

He flips the bartender a credit chip for the drinks.

“Sorry about the mess,” he says, and saunters out.


	2. The Cockpit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I just got a [tumblr](http://famous-wwi-flying-ace.tumblr.com/), and I'm super excited about it, so go follow me there and ask me questions and send me stuff, okay? Okay!

The old Vulcan—Selek, Jim learns, not because the old guy bothered to introduce himself of course, but because Jim is an A+ eavesdropper—wastes no time in getting started on all that Jedi voodoo pretty much the moment they’re out of enemy fire and on the way to Alderaan.

He and Bones have kicked up the autopilot and are pretending to play a game of holo-chess so they can watch the proceedings. (Or, at least, Jim _hopes_ Bones is pretending to play holo-chess, because the doctor is losing so miserably it’s not even funny.)

“When you close your eyes,” Selek is saying, “and relinquish your own physical senses, you gain access to a deeper, more powerful sense—a connection with the Force.”

“I know. I am meant to be able to see the room without seeing it,” Spock says. If Jim didn't know better he'd say his voice sounds almost frustrated. “But I sense nothing of the sort.”

“You are trying too hard. Allow yourself to relax. Clear your mind. Submit all your passions to the Force. You have no desires, no agenda of your own. There is only the Force.”

“Yes,” Spock murmurs, his eyes still closed, his voice blank.

“Fifty credits says there’s some weird sex stuff going on along with all that Jedi mumbo-jumbo,” Jim mutters under his breath.

Bones gives him that old familiar why-do-I-know-you look. “Just because _you’re_ a pervert—”

“I didn’t make this perverted!” Jim protests, all wide eyes and innocence. “This was perverted before I got here.”

Bones rubs the bridge of his nose and starts muttering something that might be the prayer for patience.

“C’mon, are you hearing this?” Jim closes his eyes in a pantomime of the old Vulcan and assumes his best wise-old-mentor voice, “When your body is calm, and your mind free from passions, you can sense it. Feel it enveloping you…surrounding you… _penetrating_ you—”

Bones smacks him upside the head.

“Listen, kid, you were six when the Order fell so you don’t remember, but I was fourteen and I can tell you, these guys were the real deal. Whether or not you believe in their religious Force stuff, they were powerful. And very highly respected.”

Jim looks over to where Selek is leaving Spock to his meditation. Spock’s eyebrows are slightly furrowed, his back ramrod-straight, regal and almost otherworldly in his concentration.

He can see where the respect bit came from, at least.

He turns back to Bones. “I’m just saying, I would bet good money there’s at least one baby fathered by ’the Force’. All that repressed no-attachments crap must’ve backlashed _somewhere._ ”

Bones crosses his arms and scowls, but he doesn’t disagree, and Jim would totally jump on that as an opportunity to gloat that he’s right and Bones is wrong, except Spock has started some kind of stretching exercise, his arms reaching forward, his back a long, graceful dancer’s line, his legs spreading farther than should be physically possible…

“Jesus,” Jim manages weakly.

“Don’t,” says Bones.

“Bones, getting that” - he points at Spock - “in there” - he points at his quarters - “was the whole point of taking them on as clients!”

“So I guess the enormous amount of money they offered meant nothing to you,” McCoy mutters.

“Okay, yeah, that helped,” he admits.

“I’m serious, Jim, don’t mess with this one,” Bones says grimly, but Jim’s barely listening, watching with interest as Spock stretches down until his torso is touching the floor. “Romantic relationships are the worst possible disgrace for a Jedi. Several of them even committed suicide after being discovered having an affair.”

Well _that_ jolts Jim out of his trance.

“But…but he’s not even a real Jedi! There’s no such _thing_ as Jedi anymore!”

“Try telling that to _him_!” Bones hisses, pointing, and obligingly, Jim lets his gaze return to Spock.

He’s still sitting there, eyes closed in concentration, obviously trying ridiculously hard to not try so hard. Trying to clear his mind.

And the thing is, Jim might come off as an idiot (there is no advantage so useful as being underestimated), but one thing he’s good at is recognizing loss. To him it’s as clear as a limp would be to some others, or a strange accent. If you knew how to see it, loss tinges everything a person does, sometimes so strongly that it becomes hard to ignore, overwhelming whatever other message they want to get across. And Spock… well, there’s definitely something going on there. Something that Spock has been doing his utmost to avoid thinking about.

_Clear your mind…_

And loss… Look, loss can make you vulnerable. Desperate. And desperation makes you do some crazy things. Makes you take up arguments, decisions, even whole legacies that aren’t yours, all out of the desire to do _something_ about the chaotic abyss inside you.

Loss is enough to make you vulnerable enough to agree to become a Jedi, Jim guesses.

And this Selek guy is probably taking advantage of that vulnerability.

Jim realizes with a start that his jaw his tight, that his right fist his clenched, and forcibly makes himself relax.

Still. It’s like he’s going to kill himself. That would be insane!

 _This whole thing is insane,_ Jim thinks grumpily, almost angry at himself for actually worrying about some stranger with some crazy religion who he’ll probably never see again. He’s a potential lay, not his boyfriend for christ’s sake…

He must be losing it.

“I’m going back to the cockpit to check on the controls,” says Bones, and Jim mutters a distracted “see ya,” barely paying attention as his friend walks out of the room.

Walks out of the room, leaving Jim and Spock alone.

Well.

Far be it from him to pass up an opportunity.

Jim goes to his knees, completely silent, and slowly, painstaking slowly, crawls up behind Spock. When he gets close enough leans in close, close enough to smell him (sand and sun and something smoky—incense?), and blows on his ear.

And watches with amusement as Spock nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Captain Kirk!” the Vulcan says, whirling around.

The captain pouts. “Hey, none of that! It’s _Jim_.”

Spock looks at him. “Very well,” he says after a moment. “Jim. You are distracting me.”

“Mmm,” Jim agrees, leaning in closer until they’re sharing breath. “I’ve been told I’m _very_ distracting.”

And Spock’s expression is completely indifferent, but his eyes—his eyes are dark and definitely interested in what Jim is offering, and wary, and a little bit confused… It’s dizzying, almost intoxicating, how much there is in those eyes.

 _He’s not going to kill himself,_ Jim reminds himself. _The Force isn’t a thing. You really are going crazy if you’re letting Bones’s superstitious nonsense get to you._

On the positive side, there _is_ something about that celibacy thing; about the fact that Spock must be a virgin. He’d probably be so curious about the whole process…so enthusiastic, like he’d been with Selek—inexperienced but eager to be taught…

“You are partially aroused,” Spock observes, his tone distinctly disapproving.

Jim raises his eyebrows. “Did the Force tell you that?”

“No,” says Spock. “You seem to be perpetually prepared for intercourse.”

Jim laughs. “Only around you, babe.”

That takes the Vulcan aback, but this time he recovers quickly. “You may cease your shameless propositions, Captain,” says Spock primly. “A Jedi is not susceptible to temptations of the flesh.”

Jim bats his eyelashes. “How ‘bout a Jedi-in-training?”

Spock makes a little noise that might be a huff and goes back to his meditation.

Jim props his chin on the Vulcan’s shoulder and feels the much-warmer body stiffen against him. “Well, if you ever change your mind…” he says, trailing his hands up Spock’s chest.

Spock tightens his jaw and clamps his eyes and doesn’t reply, and Jim huffs a laugh into the Vulcan’s ear and backs away.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He can’t tell whether the way Spock’s shoulders drop is from relief or disappointment.

—————

If Jim is perfectly honest, (which he rarely is because, ew, self-awareness) this is one of his favorite parts about the job—the part where, after everyone else has gone to sleep and Jim has first shift on pilot duty (just a precaution, really; their autopilot has never done them wrong), and it’s just Jim and an empty cockpit and a sky full of stars.

…And, tonight, an old Vulcan staring at the back of his head.

“You’re giving me the creeps,” Jim says without turning around. “Either go to bed or come sit next to me like a normal person.”

There is a slight hesitation, and then Selek is moving into his line of vision and taking a seat in Bones’s chair. And it’s not like Jim likes him or anything, but despite all the weirdo stuff he was telling Spock earlier, he seems…okay. There’s something almost soft about him. Safe.

“This is the seat of the First Officer?” Selek asks.

“It’s called the First Mate in smuggling ship terms,” says Jim. “But yeah.”

This information seems to make him happy for some reason, and the old Vulcan relaxes into his seat.

They stay like that for a long while, and Jim finds the tension leaving him as he takes in the silence between them, enjoying the familiar, steady noises from his ship, watching the stars…

…trying to ignore the way Selek is still looking at him, like it hurts him to watch but he can’t look away…

“So who was he?” Jim asks, breaking the silence when he can’t take it anymore.

The old Vulcan blinks. “Pardon me?”

“Oh come on,” says Jim, sighing. “I’m George Kirk’s son, I know when someone is looking at me and thinking about someone else. So who was he? Boyfriend?”

There’s a short pause and then… “No.”

“Husband?”

“No.”

Jim frowns, confused. He’s sure he didn’t misread that expression. “Then who…?”

“He was my…friend,” says Selek.

Jim snorts. “Oh come on, I’m not buying that.”

“He was my friend,” he repeats. “He could have been more, but I… refused him.”

Jim stares, before it finally sinks in. “Oh. Right… The Jedi thing.” Selek nods, and the Human rubs the back of his neck. “You couldn’t’ve just gone behind the Order’s backs?”

“It is not so simple. The Order mandated that no Jedi may marry because it is too dangerous. The emotions are too dangerous.”

“Dangerous how?”

“A Jedi’s power is accessed—triggered, you could say—by emotion. If one is surrounded by people or environments that causes too much emotion, the backlash is powerful.” He pauses. “Too powerful. It could make their power go completely out of control. For a Jedi, attachments can be very literally lethal.”

Jim sits back in his seat, incredulous. “And Spock wants to be one of these guys?”

“He will be, whether he wants to or not,” says Selek, low and almost ominous, and it sends a thrill of unease down Jim’s spine. “He is exceptionally strong in the Force. He must be trained or he will be a danger to himself and all those around him.”

“There is no _Force_ ,” Jim replies, angry and scared without really knowing why. “If you can’t see it and feel it and trip over it, it may as well not exist. Maybe the ‘energy field’ you’re talking about is just—good instincts!”

The old Vulcan doesn’t seem perturbed in the slightest by Jim’s trashing his religion. “Instincts or an energy field,” he says, “it has destroyed the lives of many Jedi, when allowed to grow unchecked. One attachment drove the Jedi nearly to extinction twenty years ago, and nearly destroyed the galaxy in the process.”

“It wasn’t an _attachment_ that killed the Jedi,” says Jim. “It was a person. He made his own decisions. Don’t use the Force as an excuse.”

Selek studies him for a long moment, an unfathomable expression on his face. Almost like he was seeing a ghost.

“You are,” he manages at last, “very much like him. More than I…” He trails off, seeming unable to finish.

“You regret it,” Jim realizes. “You regret turning him down.”

There is another long pause as Selek continues to stare, but more _past_ Jim than _at_ him this time.

“Of course I do. I regret it…very deeply. I constantly await that day when I will join him. He is parted from me and never parted. Never and always touching and touched. This separation is…difficult. More difficult than I can say. But still, it is better than the alternative.”

He seems so drawn and so lonely in that moment, and Jim almost wants to reach out to him, to comfort him somehow.

“You know, if you want,” he says, before he can second-guess himself. “If you want closure or something… I mean, I remind you of him, right? I could…”

Something seems to shutter in Selek’s eyes. “I believe I will retire for the evening,” he says, rising. “Good night, Captain.”

Jim looks at him, at the weariness in his eyes, in his posture; the kind of weariness that can’t be cured by sleep.

He imagines Spock looking like that someday. The thought leaves him unsettled and strangely cold.

“G’night, old man,” Jim says softly.

And Selek leaves, and Jim goes back to looking at the stars.

He’s got a lot to think about tonight.


	3. The Hangar

If Jim could put a caption to the past six hours, it would be _“the part where everything went horribly wrong” (_ end quote). Because you know you’re in for some fun when you find out that an entire planet has been blown to smithereens, and that’s just the _beginning_ of it.

They had only just witnessed the wreckage of what used to be Alderaan when all of the sudden they were being pulled in via tractor beam to that moon-slash-Federation-spaceship-slash-Death-sphere-thing, and then they were sneaking out of the Enterprise in the hopes of turning off the beam and getting themselves out of here, and yeah, this job was already more trouble than it was worth.

And then, just to make things that much stupider, Spock decided that this was the perfect time to swoop in and rescue some kind of captured _princess_.

Of course, Jim had refused, mainly because he actually does not in fact want to die today, thank you, and he would have kept on refusing, except then Spock had been silent for a few moments.

And then he had said, very serious and very quiet, “She is of noble blood. Doubtless there will be a generous reward for the party that rescues her.”

And that… that’s when Jim knew that Spock was going to rescue this girl, no matter what Jim did, no matter how dangerous it was.

And that’s when Jim had to agree. Because this Vulcan kid was going to try to save the beautiful princess from her evil Federation captors come hell or high water, like some kind of actual knight from ages past. Jim had thought - had _hoped_ \- that people didn't actually do stuff like that anymore.

Then again, Spock’s clearly an old-fashioned kind of guy.

And for some reason—for some stupid, instinctive reason—Jim couldn’t stand the idea of him getting himself killed trying to be the hero.

Call it temporary insanity. Maybe Spock is contagious.

So, fine. Let the Vulcan think Jim’s doing it for the money. In fact, Jim prefers it that way. Because then, neither of them have to wonder what Jim’s real motivations are for helping Spock.

(And if he wondered, just a little bit venomously, what exactly this princess did to inspire such loyalty in Spock without them ever even _meeting_ … Well, that was probably just a symptom of his irritation at the whole ordeal.)

So they did it. They rescued the most-noble-and-honorable-et-cetera flithy-rich rebel chick despite it all. Literally, despite it _all_. Through luck and cleverness and a good dose of sheer stupidity they saved the damn princess with the bizarre-o hairstyle and the truckloads of attitude and absolutely zero charm and… and okay, fine, it turns out Princess Uhura is unbelievably hot, and somehow that only made Jim more annoyed at her.

But they saved her anyway, and look where it got them.

It got him and Bones to the corner of the forward bay of the so-called Death Star, weapons in hand. They're only a couple hundred feet from his beloved Enterprise, but with the dozens of stormtroopers standing guard they might as well be across the station.

“Didn't we just leave this party?” Jim mutters, leaning back against the wall and surveying the stormtroopers’ circuit around the hangar.

Bones grunts in response.

Suddenly Jim hears footsteps and turns, instincts firing to life, weapon at the ready. But it’s only Spock and Uhura.

“What kept you?” Jim hisses, relaxing.

“We ran into some old friends,” says Uhura dryly.

“Is the ship in adequate condition?” Spock asks.

“Seems okay, if we can get to it,” says Jim. “Just hope the old man got the tractor beam out of commission.”

“Captain,” says Spock, his voice strange, his eyes elsewhere. “Look.”

Jim, Bones, and Uhura look up to see Selek emerging from the hallway on the far side of the docking bay. His lightsaber is drawn, his expression tight, focused, and with him…

The sight of the black armor, the mask, the red lightsaber sends a shock of dread through Jim’s veins.

_Vader._

The Emperor’s second-in-command, half flesh and blood, half wires and bolts, and more merciless than either. Or so the rumors go. Vader was another story Jim had only half-believed, larger than life and too fantastical to exist.

It seems like a lot of what Jim thought impossible is suddenly all too real.

Vader’s and Selek’s lightsabers twirl and flash, lightning jumping with each impact, and for a moment it seems as if the world has come to a complete halt. Jim, Spock, Bones, and Uhura stand frozen, watching the duel, unable to look away. The stormtroopers look on in fascination, until it seems as though some silent cue has been given and they’re moving in unison toward the duel, presumably to tip the fight’s odds in their favor.

“Now’s our chance!” Jim hisses, seeing their opportunity. “ _Go_!”

Spock, Bones, and Uhura don’t need to be twice; they run for their lives toward the ship, and _go go go_ and they’re there, they’re _there_ , and then at the last minute Spock stops _(- oh for the love of GOD I'm gonna kill him -)_ and turns around.

Jim turns too, about to grab Spock’s collar and _drag_ him up to the ship, but then he sees what’s commanded the Vulcan’s attention.

It’s Selek, his face unreadable as he stares back at them—at the two of them, standing there side-by-side. And then the old Vulcan’s expression changes, transforms into something calm, resigned. Serene. He lifts his sword away from Vader’s as if in surrender.

_(“I constantly await that day when I will join him.”)_

And all at once Jim knows exactly what will happen, but by then it’s too late, and Vader’s lightsaber slices down, cutting the old Vulcan in half, sending his robe fluttering to the ground as if he were never there at all. Jim’s head spins, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him, but he can’t look away.

“No!” Spock screams. _Screams._ The pure, unveiled emotion in his voice takes Jim aback.

But it also brings the stormtroopers’ attention to them.

It only takes a moment and then the whole team of troopers are firing at them. The robots, clever things they are, immediately hurry into the ship, ducking the phaserbeams, but Spock… Spock just stands there, frozen and unshielded and directly in the line of fire.

Not for the first time, Jim curses the Jedi-in-training and his _clearly_ defective self-preservation instincts, but dammit, he’s come this far, he can’t just leave him now. So despite his better judgment Jim stops and joins in the laserfire volley and manages to take out a few of the troopers in the process.

The air is so filled with smoke and noise that it’s hard to tell if anything is making contact, and then Vader looks up, straight at them, and takes a step forward, then another, advancing faster than should be possible—

“ _Come on_!” Jim shouts frantically to him.

“Spock, it’s too late!” Uhura yells.

But Spock doesn’t respond, still lost to the world, and Jim grits his teeth. “ _Blast the door closed, Spock!”_

That does it. The Vulcan blinks, looks at him, and then turns and fires his pistol at the door control panel.

It explodes into a shower of sparks and the door begins to slide shut with the stormtroopers still on the other side. Three troopers charge forward, firing their phasers, and manage to get through before the metal door closes with a heavy, final thud, but Vader and the other stormtroopers disappear from sight. Jim and Uhura sprint up the ramp to the pirateship, and Spock…

Jim hesitates, looking back. For a moment it almost seems like Spock is about to move forward, toward the advancing troops ( _toward death_ ). But then all at once the Vulcan freezes.

Looks around.

Turns back to the Enterprise.

Jim sighs out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

They run into the pirateship together, Spock activating the door control panel while Jim slides into the pilot’s seat, heart pounding.

—————

The old Vulcan _had_ deactivated the tractor beam, as it turned out, and had saved them all in the process. But it was only until after they had escaped the Death Star and fought off all the enemy ships sent after them (and Spock had more than proven he was as good a pilot as he’d said he was, _damn_ but talent is sexy) that it really sunk in that he was gone.

Selek was gone.

Jim had only known the guy for the three days it had taken to get from Vulcan to Alderaan, but the loss sinks like a lead anchor in his gut, scratches behind his eyes, and suddenly Selek’s absence is overwhelming in a way his presence never was.

He can’t imagine how Spock, who’d actually been raised by the guy after his parents died (he’s lost his entire family now—God, Spock…), is dealing with it.

The thing is, he really _can’t_ imagine how Spock is dealing with it because the Vulcan hasn’t said a word since they were out of immediate danger, has just settled into the spot he’d sat in that first day aboard the Enterprise and submerged himself in meditation. All of Jim’s attempts to get his attention, to get him to talk, to get him to accept a _hug_ or something, seemed to fall on deaf ears.

So Jim went back to the cockpit and took up control of his ship while Bones headed to the aft section to assess the damage.

Princess Uhura comes over to sit in the First Mate’s seat, and Jim gives her a wide, obnoxious grin and tries not to think of the last passenger who’d sat in that chair.

“Not a bad bit of rescuing, huh?” he says, leaning back and putting his feet up. “You know, sometimes I even amaze myself.”

Uhura looks at him, long-suffering. “That doesn't sound too hard. Besides, they let us go. It's the only explanation for how easy our escape was.”

“Easy,” Jim repeats incredulously, sitting straight up. “You call that _easy_?”

“They’re tracking us!”

“Not this ship,” says Jim with complete confidence.

Uhura shakes her head, rubbing her temples in frustration.

“At least the information I sent in the escape pod is still intact,” she mutters.

“What's so important?” Jim asks, curious despite himself. “What did you send them?”

“The technical readouts of that battle station. I only hope that when the data is analyzed, a weakness can be found. It's not over yet!”

Jim shrugs. “It is for me.” At Uhura’s disbelieving look, he continues, “Look, I’m not in this for your revolution, and I'm not in it for _you_ , Princess. I’m here because I was hired for a job, and I did it. Now all that’s left to do is collect my payment and get clear of you and your harebrained plans.”

“Well,” says the princess angrily. “You needn't worry about your payment. If money is all that you love, then that's what you'll receive!”

Jim makes a face. See if he rescues _her_ the next time she gets kidnapped or whatever.

She turns on her heel and starts out of the cockpit, just as Spock is making his way in.

“Your friend is quite a mercenary,” Uhura tells him, voice tight. “I wonder if he really cares about anything... or anyone.”

Spock doesn’t reply and Uhura walks off, and a moment later Spock settles into the copilot seat.

They stay like that for a while in silence, staring out at the vast blackness of space.

“Captain,” Spock says, eventually, “I am…curious as to your impressions. What do you think of Princess Uhura?”

“For the last time, it’s _Jim_. And I’m trying not to,” Jim mutters, fixing the Enterprise’s flight controls.

“That is satisfactory,” says Spock, under his breath. He doesn’t even seem to realize he’s saying it.

So that’s it, huh? After all of Jim’s wheedling and offering, all the Princess had to do is _exist_ and he falls for her?

The thought is surprisingly painful—toxic, almost—inside his chest.

Maybe that’s why he paints on a grin and says, “Still, she's got a lot of spirit.” Spock looks up. Stares at him. “I don't know, what do you think? Do you think a princess and a guy like me—”

“ _No_ ,” says the Vulcan sharply, almost a growl.

Jim blinks. Spock seems to abruptly realize the inadvertent slip of emotion, and glances away.

And Jim blows a long breath out and focuses back on his flight console and reminds himself that it’s not like he’ll ever see Spock again anyway.

If only that made it hurt _less_.

—————

There is a voice over the loudspeaker at the rebel base hangar announcing the orders for the rebel flight crew (“All flight troops, man your stations. All flight troops, man your stations”), but Jim ignores it, ignores all the activity of the fighter pilots’ preparation around him, concentrating instead on loading his reward (seventeen thousand credits, as promised), into his ship.

He doesn’t feel bad to be leaving them to their stupid—noble, sure, but really just unbelievably stupid—plan of attack. He has no reason to. After all, this isn’t his fight.

No. He doesn’t feel bad to be leaving them.

Not a single one of them.

“I see,” says a familiar voice, and Jim looks up. _Spock_.

He’s wearing a rebel flight suit, and nooo, no way, he can’t possibly be one of the fighter pilots running straight into enemy fire, he’s too smart to—oh, who is Jim kidding, of course he is.

“You have received your reward, then,” says Spock flatly.

“That's right,” says Jim, then frowns at how defensive his own voice sounds. “Yeah, I got some old debts I've got to pay off with this stuff. Even if I didn't, you don't think I'd be fool enough to stick around here, do you?”

Spock raises one eyebrow, and Jim winces, realizing that he’d accidentally just called the Vulcan stupid.

“Look,” he says, softer this time. “Why don't you come with us? You're pretty good in a fight. I could use you.” Spock’s eyebrows lower and Jim clears his throat. “In a totally platonic way, that is. If you want.”

Spock’s eyebrows only furrow further, and now it’s clear what that expression is—anger. “Are you truly unaware of the goings-on around you? The rebel fleet is launching a last-resort attack to eliminate the Death Star before it annihilates the faction, and the entirety of the rebellion with them. They are in dire need of excellent pilots such as yourself.” He pauses, like that should mean something to Jim. When he gets no response, the Vulcan narrows his eyes. “You are abandoning them.”

Jim bristles. “Do you even hear yourself?” he demands. “I’m not abandoning anyone, okay, I never signed up to become an intergalactic hero. I’ve done more than enough for the good of your rebellion. And even if I was interested in helping out, I know a kamikaze run when I see one. And unlike the rest of you, apparently, I am not completely insane!”

“The attack plan is risky, perhaps,” says Spock. “But it is the only chance we have.”

“The only chance _you_ have,” Jim corrects him, and turns pointedly to return to loading his credits on the ship.

“I do not understand you,” says Spock, low and almost angry. “Are you not opposed to the tyranny of the Federation?”

“It’s not that simple,” Jim replies, jabbing a finger at him. “I’m anti-Federation, but I’m also pro-survival! What good's a reward if you aren’t around to use it? Besides, attacking that battle station isn’t my idea of courage. That’s what I call _suicide_! Or maybe that’s what you want.” Something in the Vulcan’s posture tightens and he knows he’s hit home. “Maybe you’re trying to follow in your master’s footsteps and get yourself killed, same as him. Well I’m not getting dragged into it!”

“I am not attempting to indirectly commit suicide,” Spock says tersely. “I am acting in congruence with my convictions.”

“Spoken like a true martyr,” Jim mutters, and goes back to his cargo.

Suddenly there’s an iron grip on his arm, pulling him away, forcing him to look back at the Vulcan.

“There was a time you had convictions,” Spock murmurs, their faces very close, and Jim might be ridiculously attracted to the guy but he _is_ going to punch him in the face if he doesn’t get that painful grip off him. “There were principles you would stand with, that you would stand _for_ , no matter what loss they might cause you to incur. You sacrificed your career and endangered your life to uphold what you thought was right. Where is that conviction now?”

Jim pulls himself away. “Conviction is just a synonym for stupidity. I like to think I’ve learned a thing or two before my cut-and-run from the Federation.”

“Stay,” Spock repeats, as if Jim hadn’t spoken. “This is your chance to once again do something worthwhile. Something right. Something only you can do.”

“I _am_ doing something worthwhile,” says Jim through gritted teeth. “ _Staying alive_.”

The two of them stare at each other for a long moment, unwilling to back down and unable to look away.

“Very well,” says Spock at last. “I would offer you the Vulcan blessing to live long and prosper, but I suppose it is not necessary. It is already your greatest skill and only priority, after all.”

And with that, the Jedi-in-training goes off, and Jim hesitates, torn between anger and apology, wanting to keep Spock here either way, wanting to keep him safe…

“Spock,” Jim calls. “Spock, wait.”

The Vulcan pauses. Turns. Those dark, oddly-Human eyes meet his.

The moment of connection seems to last forever, too much and not enough all at once, sending an unfamiliar fluttering in Jim’s stomach.

Finally, the smuggler gives him a crooked smile and says softly, “May the Force be with you.”

After a moment, Spock lifts his hand in a strange kind of salute Jim has never seen before. And then the Vulcan turns away and heads off across the hangar, and Jim watches him go, disappointed. Confused and irritated by the person he’d started, foolishly, to think of as a friend. Frustrated by him.

_(Scared out of his wits for him.)_

He frowns, banishing the thought from his mind, and turns back to the stacks of credits. And finally notices Bones staring at him.

“What're you looking at?” Jim snaps. “I know what I'm doing.”

“‘Course you do,” Bones mutters, but drops the subject.

—————

It’s only when they’re a good distance away from the rebel base that Jim realizes that Bones is wearing a headset he doesn’t recognize, that that’s where his mind has been since takeoff. (Not that Jim can complain, he’s the one who’s been sulking—Bones’s word, not his—and angrily telling himself that Spock isn’t his problem the entire time.)

He only notices when Bones’s mouth flattens to a line, anyway.

“What’s that?” Jim asks. “What are you listening to?”

“Red Six is down,” he says.

 _Red Six—no, Spock is Red Five,_ Jim remembers with a horrible jolt of dread and relief.

Not that Jim cares! Because he doesn’t! Because Spock is, as previously stated, Not His Problem.

“Why did you keep the comm set they gave us?” Jim demands.

“I asked them if I could. I wanted to keep an eye on the kid.” At the captain’s expression he adds, “I know you’re worried about him too!”

“I’m not worried,” Jim mutters, and goes back to his console, just to prove it.

Still, he can’t help it if his eyes keep returning to Bones’s face, watching for any more bad news.

Aaand there it is.

“Who is it?” Jim asks, trying to sound calm and soundly failing.

“Red Ten.”

The next few minutes are almost unbearable, the silence punctuated only with Bones’s reporting the latest casualty _(“Nine…” “Seven…” “Eleven…” “Two—he was hit, but he’ll be fine…”),_ Jim torn between the desire to steal the headset and the desire to break the damn thing.

He clenches his jaw and looks toward the stars and counts the reasons turning back would be a terrible idea. Featuring heavily is the one where Spock is Still Not Jim’s Problem. If he wants to go and die, it’s not Jim’s fault.

That’s what he gets for trying to talk sense into a crazy person.

“Red Three,” says Bones quietly, which means… which means Spock is the last one standing. The last, tiny David still battling against the Imperial Goliath.

Jim closes his eyes. _God, that idiot…_

Suddenly Bones’s expression goes anxious and worried, and ice drops into Jim’s veins.

“What?” he demands. “ _What is it_?”

Bones frowns. “He’s turned off his targeting computer…”

“He did _what!_?” And that’s it, Jim abandons the steering wheel and reaches for Bones’s headset. “Gimme that!”

“No!” Bones yells, trying to shove him away.

But Jim is nothing if not determined, and pretty soon Jim is practically in Bones’s lap, grabbing at the microphone headset while the ship swerves drunkenly in empty space and Bones shouts, “Ten and two, kid! _Ten and two!!”_

Finally after much whining and pinching and threatening and squirming around, Jim manages to snag the headset and put it on (ignoring Bones cursing him and his ancestors and his ancestors’ pets in the chair beside him), just in time to hear Spock report that he’s lost his R-2 unit. Jesus, he can’t leave the guy alone for two seconds.

“We’re turning around,” Jim grates out.

Bones stares at him. “We’re _what_?!”

“We’re _turning around!_ ” Jim says again, and wrenches the steering wheel to the side, spinning the ship into a 180-degree turn and nearly sending both of them flying from their seats.

“You,” Bones grumbles, “are the actual worst, and if you get us killed I’m never speaking to you again!”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Jim, as the two of them start calibrating for attack mode controls in perfect, practiced synchrony.

 _“_ I’m not kidding, Jim! We could get killed!”

“At least it’ll be for something worthwhile,” Jim mutters, and Bones looks at him, shocked.

His First Mate rubs his jaw, and then finally—

“Well,” he says gruffly. “I guess in that case…”

That’s all the confirmation Jim needed, and a moment later he’s got the accelerator online and they’re flying through space at full throttle, while Bones gets them connected to the rebel base comm frequency.

Jim pushes his beloved ship as hard as she’ll go, listening to the empty static from the headset for more information on Spock’s status, the adrenaline singing a beautiful, frantic rhythm beneath his skin.

At last the Death Star comes into view, and Jim has to close his eyes and visualize the blueprints he’d seen at the rebel meeting, follow the path they’d highlighted…

It must only be a few seconds later, though it seems like an eternity, and finally the battleground comes into view—Spock’s ship barreling down the trench, with three TIE fighters hot on his trail.

 _Well, we can’t have that,_ Jim thinks grimly—almost _protectively_ —and shoots one of the ships into an explosion of flames.

“ _Yes_!” Jim shouts, punching the air. He and Bones give each other ear-to-ear grins and a well deserved high-five.

“Two left, buddy,” says Jim. “You think we can do it?”

“No one’s ever doubted your talent for destruction,” Bones drawls.

“True enough!” says Jim cheerfully, and then he’s barreling forward, straight into the two remaining Imperial ships.

“Are you setting a collision course!?” Bones demands, clutching the sideboard like that’ll do them any good if they get blown out of the sky.

“Yup,” Jim replies. “I like to call it Space Chicken.”

“I hate you,” says Bones, covering his eyes with his free hand. “I hate you I hate you I hate you—”

“C’mon,” Jim mutters, his hands steady, his eyes focused, a split second away from crashing into the second TIE fighter, and _finally_ the other pilot panics and veers radically to the side, colliding the third TIE fighter in the process.

One of the fighter ships crashes into the side wall of the Death Star trench and explodes; the other one spins out of control, its solar fin bent beyond recognition, and hurtling off its course and out of sight.

Jim and Bones practically jump out of their seats, whooping and cheering.

“You're all clear, Spock!” Jim crows into the microphone, giddy with victory. “Now let's blow this thing and go home!”

—————

It’s only after Spock makes his unbelievable shot (seriously, Jim might have found a new kink, and that kink is talent, because _damn_ ) and blows the entire Death Star to oblivion and they’ve landed back at the rebel base that Jim realizes what he’s just said. _Home? Seriously?_ He wouldn’t know the first thing about what home looked like, what possessed him to decide that—

And then he and Bones are surrounded by a throng of ground crew and pilots, laughing and cheering and shouting, and Uhura throws her arms around the three of them, and for the briefest moment he and Spock are pressed against each other and then the next moment it’s over, leaving all the nerves in Jim’s body lit up like the afterimage of the sun on his eyelids.

“I knew you would return,” Spock murmurs, his expression subdued but his eyes bright with happiness, and Jim grins back.

“Well, I wasn’t gonna let you get all the credit and take all the reward!”

“Of course,” says Spock, his lips just slightly curled at the corners. “I suppose you will have to stay for a while longer in order to collect your money, then.”

“Yeah,” says Jim, breathless with the victory, with the thrill of earning one of Spock’s rare smiles. “I guess I could stick around. Just for a little while.”


	4. Interlude

_One month later._

It’s become way more natural than it should be for them to melt into the rebel family. For Jim to fall into a pleasant routine of alternating between raising hell for the Federation and retiring to the base to share meals and drinks and lurid stories. For Bones to quickly takes his rightful place as the angry, overprotective dad nobody wanted but everybody needed. And for Spock…

Well.

They’re in the rec room, an old, unused hangar with little more than a couple of chair-height crates and a table, playing poker with some of the guys—Spock, for his part, supposedly participating, but not _trying_ , on principle—when Sulu comes in carrying an armful of rolled up papers.

Jim immediately puts down his cards (his hand sucked anyway). “What’cha got there?”

“The new Federation wanted posters!” Sulu says, grinning. “Ready to see who’s this week’s biggest troublemaker?”

Their game is quickly forgotten in the whoops and cheers, and everyone scoots over to make room for Sulu.

“I haven’t looked at these yet,” he confesses, “but we haven’t done anything big this week, so it shouldn’t be drastically different than the last posters.”

He rolls out the first one.

“Montgomery Scott!” he announces. “You’re going for twenty thousand credits! Dead or alive.”

This is met with a chorus of approval and some pats on the engineer’s back. Scotty laughs and raises his glass toast-style in response.

“Next!” Sulu rolls out the next one. “Gaila Vro! Thirty-five thousand! Dead or alive.”

“Hell yeah,” says Gaila, slapping Jim and Scotty high-fives.

“Pavel Chekov… fifteen thousand, dead or alive.”

“Not bad for a kid who just started last month!” says Jim, punching him in the arm. Chekov beams.

Sulu rolls out the next one. “Hey, it’s me! Thirty thousand, dead or alive.”

“You’re gaining on me,” says Gaila, lifting her glass.

“Doctor Leonard McCoy—one million, dead or alive.”

Everyone claps, and Bones mutters, “One million in accessory-to-a-crime charges.”

“But you _are_ the most stylish accessory,” says Jim. Bones rolls his eyes.

“Captain James Kirk,” says Sulu. He gives a low whistle. “Ten million, dead or alive.”

The group breaks into applause. Jim puts his feet up on the table and locks his hands behind his head, smirking. Spock quirks an amused eyebrow back at him.

“Princess Uhura,” Sulu announces. “Twenty-five million, dead or alive.” A ripple of impressed murmurs travels around the table. She’s not playing poker with them, of course. Not because she couldn’t or wouldn’t—Jim is pretty sure she could wipe the floor with all of them—but because she’s busy strategizing their next attack.

“Who’s the last one?” Scotty asks, pointing at the final, still-rolled paper.

“Maybe it’s Spock!” says Jim, slapping his friend on the back.

“Maybe,” Gaila agrees. “Don’t worry about the price Spock, everyone starts out on the low end.”

“I will endeavor not to,” says Spock dryly.

Sulu rolls out the poster, laughing, his mouth opening to tell them the number…

His smile fading, his eyes widening…

“What?” Jim demands, sitting up and leaning forward, trying to catch a glimpse. _“What is it?”_

“Commander S’chn T’gai Spock,” Sulu says finally, sounding strangled. “Eight hundred fifty million credits. Alive only.”

Shocked silence descends upon the group.

Jim stares at Spock. Everyone else carefully stares anywhere but. Spock stares at the poster—at the grainy, low-quality black-and-white picture of him getting out of a standard low-flying speeder, and the astronomical number printed underneath.

“They must’ve figured out the name of the pilot who took down their Death Star,” says Bones at last, an uneasy edge to his voice.

“Why alive only?” Jim wonders out loud, his _beware: danger_ instincts blaring in the back of his head. “Why did he rocket up from nothing to _eight hundred fifty million_ overnight? Something’s weird about this… Spock, can you think of any reason they’d want you alive so bad?”

It takes a moment for Spock to respond.

“I…” says Spock, with some effort. “Can think of one possibility.”

“It’s not ‘cause you’re a Jedi, is it?” Sulu teases. Jim glares at him and the pilot immediately shuts up. There’s only one person allowed to harass Spock for his bizarre life choices, and that’s Jim.

“Not directly,” says Spock. He’s still staring at the poster. “Before his…passing, Selek told me that my father was a member of the Jedi Order. And a highly respected one, at that. Selek trained both my father—and Vader.” He pauses. Finally looks up at them. At Jim. “Vader betrayed and murdered my father. Perhaps he intends—”

“To do the same to you,” Jim finishes, his fist white knuckled around his glass. The idea of Vader getting his hands on Spock is unacceptable. Unbearable.

Spock inclines his head.

For a long moment there is a charged, almost nervous silence.

“Well screw that,” says Bones grumpily, breaking the mood. “No way he’s gettin’ near you ‘s long’s we’re around.”

The rest of the group murmurs their agreements, and for an instant something flashes across Spock’s face—something open and vulnerable and painfully Human.

Something almost like a smile.

“Yeah,” says Jim softly, the protectiveness rising in him hot and sharp and more powerful than he’s ever known. “As long as we’re around.”

Maybe he can stay for a while.

Just a while longer.

* * *

 

_Six months later._

“I can’t believe,” Jim grunts, pulling the gauze tight around the wound on Spock’s arm, “you almost got killed because you wouldn’t shoot at a freaking fifty-foot _dinosaur-bird.”_

“It is referred to as the _tresarius homunculus_ ,” says Spock primly, despite the blood and bruises. “More commonly known as the tyrantrum. It is the last of its kind.”

“So _what_?” Jim yells, pulling the next circle of gauze tighter than is probably necessary. “You’re also the last of your kind!”

“There are eight point four seven one billion Vulcans currently in existence,” says Spock, nonplussed. “Or were you referring to my being a Jedi?”

“I was referring to you being _you_. There may be other Vulcans, but none of them are you. And even if there were other Jedi, they still wouldn’t be you.”

Spock looks at him. “You value life above all else,” he says; an observation, not a question.

Jim glances up, only to realize how close they are now, with Spock sitting against the wall of the warehouse they’d managed to find shelter in and Jim patching him up. He looks back down immediately, inexplicably unable to hold the contact.

“Well, yeah,” he mutters to the bandage. “Nowhere near how much you value life though, you being a vegetarian and a pacifist and all. Well, all life except your own.”

“I value my own life,” says Spock, mildly.

Jim rolls his eyes. “Yeah? Maybe when we get through _one_ mission without you getting injured I’ll believe that. What’s the point of having an ancient, awesome weapon that can cut through _anything,_ if you refuse to use it?”

“I would use it,” Spock murmurs, “if it were necessary.”

Jim laughs quietly. “And let me guess—violence is never necessary.” Without waiting for a response, he leans closer to cut the end of the bandage with his teeth, securing it with a pressurized pin.

“You are surprisingly adept at primary first aid procedures,” says Spock.

Jim snorts. “Well, yeah, Bones practically drove himself into a premature heart attack making sure I could do the basic medical stuff. You’d be surprised at the crazy situations we got into while we were running away from the…” Finally he looks back up, straight into Spock’s eyes, his cool breath, his face just an inch from Jim’s. “The… uh…”

Spock watches him with dark, unfathomable eyes. Jim licks his lips nervously and feels something shiver under Spock’s skin. Under the arm he’s still leaning on, even though he’s finished tying the gauze.

“There you are!”

Jim and Spock jolt away from each other and whirl around toward the door, where a figure in full rebel regalia, helmet and all, is standing, smoke still billowing from the tip of the long-barreled phaser.

“I know that voice,” says Jim slowly, and sure enough the person removes the helmet, revealing a cascade of dark hair and an acre-wide smile.

“Backup has arrived, boys,” says Uhura, tossing phasers to both of them.

“Princess,” says Spock—no, he _breathes_ it. Like the wind’s been knocked out of him.

Only Uhura makes him act this way—young and nervous and _emotional_. Not that she did anything to deserve that admiration.

Okay, fine, she’s leading a rebellion against the tyrannical galazy-wide institution and shoots like a world-class sniper and looks great in combat uniform. But aside from all that, she’s nothing special really.

Still, Jim gets to his feet, Spock behind him, Uhura in front of him, all of them armed and ready to create a serious nuisance for the Federation, and it feels right.

It feels like this is where he’s supposed to be.

And the other stuff—the stuff between him and Spock, which still simmers ever patiently in the back of his mind, defying description, defying anything Jim’s ever experienced before, neither burning out nor flashing up into anything tangible.

Still. He can stick around for a bit.

Just a little while longer.

* * *

 

_One year later._

“Release him,” Spock orders, his voice flat and cold.

It had just been a routine scouting mission to Ord Mantell looking for sites that could potentially be used for their new base, after the Federation had invaded the last one on Mustafar. They’ve been more determined and more merciless than ever—and more efficient. It seems as though as soon as the rebels settled somewhere, the Imperials were already on their tail.

These guys, though… these aren’t Imperials. These are standard-issue bounty hunters, the same kind he got good at escaping years ago after Kashyyyk - Jim can tell just by the smell of ‘em.

A smell that he’s, unfortunately, getting pretty familiar with from his position, with his hands bound behind his back and the bounty hunter’s elbow around his neck and a phaser pressed under his chin.

“Listen,” the bounty hunter—Dheeno, if Jim gathers correctly from the obligatory evil monologue—hisses. “Kirk’s bounty is gonna keep us in the money for the rest of our lives. You walk away right now an’ I’ll let you go unscathed. I don’t wanna kill a Vulcan kid like you, but I’ll do it.”

“The guy makes sense,” says Jim, only to have the phaser pressed harder into his throat, cutting off the words.

Spock stares at Dheeno—on anyone else Jim would call it a glare, but this is _Spock_ after all—jaw clenching.

Then, “Release him,” the Vulcan repeats. “And I will remain with you in his stead.”

“ _Spock,”_ says Jim through gritted teeth. “For once in your _life_ could you _not_ jump in the line of fire? Just once!” He tries to wriggle away from his captor only to get whacked with the barrel of the phaser. Jim sags forward, vision swimming.

Dheeno just laughs. “Now, why would I ever do that?” he asks Spock. “He’s worth twenty million. I doubt you even have a criminal record.”

“Your doubt would be quite unfounded, in that case,” says the Jedi-in-training, his eyes dark, his posture stiff. “I am S’chn T’gai Spock. My bounty is for nine hundred million credits. Alive only.”

Jim closes his eyes.

That little _idiot._

“You’re—” Dheeno gapes. “No… You can’t be. Spock is said to be a Jedi from ages past. A warrior of unimaginable power. You’re just a _child_.”

Spock straightens to full height, head high, and stares at the bounty hunter’s phaser.

Stares.

Holds out his arm…

…And Dheeno yelps as some invisible force rips the weapon from him and pulls it into Spock’s waiting hand.

“How did you—?” Dheeno stammers. “What kind of—” He cuts himself off in his own terror, which is a shame because Jim is just as flabbergasted as he is and would love to know the answers.

“And if that is not enough evidence of my Jedi knighthood,” says Spock, “perhaps I can convince you with this.”

He pulls out his lightsaber and _sshhhhhwwooo_ , the blue blade jumps up like bolt of lightning, crackling and hissing and eager for its prey.

“Okay!” Dheeno squeaks. “Okay, look, I’m releasing him!” He shoves Jim forward, where the captain stumbles to his knees, unable to keep his balance with his hands tied. “You just—you just keep your crazy voodoo powers away from me, y’hear?”

Spock looks at him. “Get out of my sight and I will consider it.”

The bounty hunter turns and runs like there’s some kind of crazed monster on his tail.

Jim stares.

Spock kneels to cut the ropes.

“How did you do that?” Jim asks, his voice coming out in a whisper without him really meaning it to.

“Selek has been teaching me,” says Spock, and a thrill of disquiet sparks down Jim’s spine. No matter what the Vulcan says, and no matter how many—admittedly cool—parlor tricks Spock learns how to pull off, hearing him talk about his “lessons” with his dead mentor will always make Jim uneasy. “I’d forgotten that you didn’t know.”

“What d’you mean you _forgot_?” Jim demands. “Have you shown this to so many people you lost track?”

“No,” says Spock. “Only Princess Uhura.”

The ropes loosen and Jim pulls his hands back in front of him, rubbing at his sore wrists. He tries to focus on that, rather than the pain in his chest. “I see. Anything else you told her and not me?”

Spock looks at Jim almost like he’s trying to decipher him. “I did not realize you would be hurt by my omission. It seemed logical to update Princess Uhura on my progress with the Force, as she has always been supportive of my training. You have been consistently opposed to it.”

That stings, even though Jim knows it’s true. And it makes sense. Somehow the fact that it was such a calculated, logical decision just makes it worse.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jim mutters, because it _doesn’t_. Jim has always been second in Spock’s eyes. Second in priority to the Force, and second in friendship to Uhura.

Maybe it’s time he came to terms with that.

Maybe it’s time he finally took off.

After all, Spock clearly can protect himself. He has plenty of friends in the rebellion, and plenty to fight for. Jim has just… Spock.

And if Spock wants to break his vow of celibacy—his vow of emotionlessness—it definitely won’t be for Jim.

So, yeah, it’s going to hurt. It’s going to hurt like hell, actually, leaving the people (and the person) he’s come to think of as home. But it’s worse to keep living like this, constantly waiting for that _something_ between him and Spock to happen, and watching it bloom up instead between Spock and Uhura.

Bones will go wherever Jim goes, of course. They can use the money they’ve earned from the rebel missions to pay off his debt with Marcus and then they can go back to what they were doing before. They can go back to being _free_. Weightless. Anchorless.

Meaningless.

“You seem dazed,” says Spock, his eyes raking over him like a med scanner—as clinical, as faultless. “Did he hurt you in any manner of which I was unaware? When he struck you—”

“I’m fine, Spock,” says Jim, pushing his hands away. And he is. He’s fine. He’ll be fine.

He always is.

“It’s time to go,” Jim murmurs. Spock hesitates before nodding and getting to his feet.

They head back to the Enterprise, back to the rebel base, and Jim is already starting to say goodbye.


	5. The Emergency Tent

Jim groans as the auxiliary wire he had been working on comes out in his hand. “It’s miracle we get anywhere in this pile of junk!”

Bones rolls out from under the Enterprise’s engine far enough for Jim to see his raised eyebrows. “You nearly bit Spock’s head off for saying the same thing.”

“Yeah, well, _I’m_ allowed to insult her all I want.” He smacks the console, partly to drive the point home and partly to get the circuit running again. “C’mon…. _c’mon_ ….”

“You’re in a sudden rush to leave,” says Bones slowly, rolling out even further, probably to make a disturbing amount of eye contact. “How did the resignation go?”

“It was fine,” says Jim, focusing on his repairs. “Pike wasn’t happy, but he understood. He wished us luck.”

“And Uhura?”

He tightens his jaw. “It doesn’t matter, Bones.”

“’Course it doesn’t matter, that’s why you’re sulking.”

“I am not _sulking_.”

“What’re you doing to that dilithium reattributor?”

Jim looks down at the wire in his hands. Or, more specifically, the tangled knot of frayed metal he’d been worrying in his hands.

He throws it to the side; it’s useless now anyway. “ _Fine._ It’s just—she was yelling at _me_ for leaving. Like it was _my_ fault! Like I was just sauntering out of the rebellion for no reason, like she’s not…” He trails off.

“Your crush’s crush?” Bones suggests.

“You could put it that way,” Jim mutters.

“Well, you can’t blame her for not understanding,” says Bones, pulling off the panel underneath the engine so he can take a better look at the reactors. “You never told her about…you know.”

“Of course I didn’t!” says Jim, jabbing the wrench in his direction. “He wants her, and she wants him, and I have nothing to do with it. I’m not enough of a jerk to get in the way of that.”

Bones glances at him, then back to his work, his mouth flattening into a line. “And Spock? Did you tell him?”

“No! He’s the _last_ one I would tell, aren’t you listening??”

“Did you tell him that we’re _leaving_?” the doctor clarifies.

Oh.

Uh.

“Um,” says Jim.

McCoy gives him a Look.

“We were too busy doing patrol!”

“Uh-huh,” says Bones.

“And then he went out to take a look at that meteorite! There just wasn’t a good time!”

“Uh-huh,” says Bones, again.

“Do I really need to tell him?” Jim whines, his shoulders slumping.

“That we’re _leaving?”_ Bones demands incredulously. “Yes! Comm him right now!”

“No!” says Jim, crossing his arms. “I’m an adult and I can make my own stupid decisions. So there,” he adds, sticking out his tongue.

“You can’t keep running away from this!”

“Um, _yes_ , I _can_ ,” says Jim.

“Actually,” says Bones, “you _can’t_ , because the central lifters are nonfunctional.”

The captain turns, only to see his First Mate’s hands full of what used to be the lifter core.

“Really?” Jim yells. “You decide _now_ is the time to pull both of these energy transmitters? I'm trying to get us out of here and you’re pulling random pieces off our ship!”

“Because they’re _broken_ , you halfwit!”

“We’ve flown with worse equipment before!”

“Excuse me, Keptin!” a new voice chimes in.

“And in this piece of crap, we could still die even with _better_ equipment!”

“Don’t you _dare_ call her that, you—”

“You’re a damn hypocrite, you know that?”

“Keptin… Might I heff a word wizh you, please?”

“What do you want?” Jim snaps, turning on him.

“Iz Princess Uhura, Keptin!” says Chekov. “She haz been trying to get you on ze communicator.”

“I turned it off,” says Jim shortly. “I don't want to talk to her.”

Chekov looks crestfallen, like he’s watching his parents fight or something. “Oh,” he says softly. “Well, ze Princess iz wondering about Commander Spock. He hazn't come back yet. She doezn't know where he is.”

 _Looking for her boyfriend, huh?_ Jim scowls and turns back to his repairs. “Well, _I_ don't know where he is,” he snaps. It’s not like he knows anything about Spock that Uhura doesn’t.

“No,” says Chekov. “Nobody does.”

Jim’s head jerks up. He stares at the other pilot, something cold and sick settling in his stomach. “What do you mean, ‘nobody knows’?”

He looks up at the fading light at the entrance of the ice cave as night slowly begins to fall on Hoth. It’s dangerous enough for a desert-dweller to be out there during the day; during the night without supplies… unable to comm back to the base for reasons that Jim doesn’t want to consider…

“Well, uh, you see—” Chekov stammers.

Despite the fact that Jim is clearly ignoring him and jumping down off the lift, Chekov follows him. “Deck Officer,” Jim shouts. He catches sight of Stevenson on the other side of the hangar. “ _Hey_! Deck Officer!”

“Excuse me! Keptin, might I inqu—”

Jim slaps his hand over Chekov’s mouth, cutting him off as the central deck officer approaches. “Yes, sir?”

“Do you know where Commander Spock is?” he bites out.

The officer hesitates, looking uneasy. “I haven't seen him. But it's possible he came in through the south entrance…”

“It's _possible_?” Jim repeats, practically snarling now. “Well why don't you go find out!? It's getting dark out there!”

“Yes, sir!” the officer squeaks, and practically _runs_ in the opposite direction. Jim takes his hand off Chekov’s mouth.

“Keptin, may I ask what iz going on?”

“You can definitely _ask_ ,” Jim mutters, and stalks away toward the entrance Spock would have used. He grabs an emergency overnight pak for extreme temperatures on the way – a heated shelter tent, a set of stim-shots, temperature-controlled sleeping bags. Even with all the provisions the rebellion has to offer, going out into the snow at night is potentially fatal.

Without any of the provisions, Spock’s chances are… not good. To say the least.

Jim forces that thought aside and heads to the south entrance check-in crew, darkly satisfied by the way the deck hand looks wide-eyed and terrified by whatever he sees on his face.

“Sir, Commander Spock hasn't come in through the south entrance. He might have forgotten to check in?” he suggests, his tone almost pleading. Jim has no idea what kind of look is on his face, but he can’t imagine it’s in any way friendly.

 _Spock,_ forgetting to check in? Right. “Are the speeders ready?”

“Not yet,” says the deck officer, glancing to the side, where the other deck hands are studiously avoiding his gaze. “We're having s-some, um, trouble a-adapting them to the cold.”

Of course. Of _course_ Jim finally manages to get his act together enough to leave only for Spock to end up incommunicado and vanished somewhere in the middle of some frozen wasteland. Of course there’s yet another reason he has to stay.

Or at least another reason he can’t _leave_.

“Then we'll have to go out on sehlats,” says Jim.

The deck officer squirms. “Sir…the temperature's dropping too rapidly.”

“That's right,” Jim mutters through gritted teeth. “And my friend’s out in it.”

The guy starts stammering something in response, but Jim is already turning and striding away across the hangar, the deck officer running to catch up behind him. He’s distantly aware that the poor guy is trying to tell him something, but Jim is beyond caring, is already pushing his way through the troops to the patrol equipment and swinging himself up onto one of the sehlats. The wind is almost a physical force outside the steel doors, but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters, if Spock is out there…

“Your sehlat will freeze before you reach the first marker!” the deck officer yells.

“Then I'll see you in hell!" Jim shouts back. He snaps the sehlat’s reins and they take off into the brutal cold.

\---

It takes about thirty seconds for the awesomeness of his exit to wear off and for Jim to start regretting this entire journey, blinking back the flurry of snowflakes pelting him, already starting to lose feeling in his toes in the oppressive cold. The oppressive, endless cold.

He’s riding in a random route at this point, surrounded by endless nothing, nothing, nothing and white, white, white. The only thing he knows for sure is that he’s lost sight of the rebel base long ago, so he couldn’t go back even if he wanted to.

Not that he wants to—his chest is still tight with the panic of Spock being out here, alone, freezing, possibly de—

No, he can’t think about that. He has to focus.

He could have been riding for hours, or minutes, he honestly has no idea, and for all he knows he’s out of range, but he pulls out his comm despite it, despite the fact that he knows the deck officers had been trying to contact the Vulcan for hours without success.

“Spock,” he calls. “You there? Please, if you can hear me, say something. Anything. Please….”

The other end of the line stays silent and dead. The only sound for miles is the roaring storm around him and the quiet protests of his sehlat. Jim takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes and tries his very last resort.

“Hey, God,” he murmurs. “Or, the Force. Or whatever you are. _If_ you are. I’ll admit, I’m skeptical about this whole thing. The whole…overarching energy that connects us and binds us and whatever. I think Selek was kind of nuts himself, and he’s passed his nuttiness on to his next of kin. But hey, I don’t believe in anything anymore, not even the basic goodness of humanity, so I’m probably a bad person to ask.” He stops, the snow burning his face, his teeth chattering. “But… Spock… he really, really believes in this stuff. He’d _die_ for this stuff. He depends on it to get through the crap you’ve given him, and by the way, you’ve given him a lot of crap. As if growing up without his parents wasn’t enough, you had to kill his aunt and uncle too, and—” He stops himself short. “Look, the point is, I’m jaded, and bitter, and I automatically think the worst of people. But Spock’s not like that. He’s… he’s the best kind of person. And he’s going to do amazing things. You just have to let him.”

And with that last, pointless prayer into the void, Jim opens his eyes.

He opens his eyes and sees a dark, humanoid blob in front of him, struggling through the storm. It falls to its knees and collapses and—

And Jim is off his sehlat and running as fast as he possibly can in the snow, and yelling, “Spock! _Spock_ , it’s me!”

Over the wind he hears what might be Spock’s voice ( _he found him he found him he found him)_ groaning, “Selek… Selek…”

He’s feverish and hallucinating and seeing people who are no longer of the living. But he’s _alive._

He drops down next to his friend, but Spock is already unconscious. He cradles him in his arms, turns him over.

There’s a horrible, bloody slash across his face and his skin is almost blue and his eyes won’t open and oh God, no no no… Dimly Jim is aware of his sehlat making a low, pitiful bellow behind him, but it doesn’t matter when Spock is silent and bleeding. He shakes the Vulcan as hard as he can. “Spock!”

No response.

_“Spock!”_

No response.

Jim’s breath catches in his throat, his voice wobbling despite his best efforts. “Don't do this, Spock. Don’t do this to me. C’mon, give me a sign here…”

Still no response.

Jim pulls one glove off with his teeth and feels his friend’s face. It’s ice-cold. Unresponsive. He’s even stopped shivering, stopped trying to so much as resist the hypothermia. Jim takes a quivering breath and begins frantically rubbing Spock’s face, trying to put some heat into them, but it’s no use. He has to get him into the emergency tent or whatever good he can do will be outweighed by the cold outside.

He scoops down and pulls Spock into his arms _(breath on his cheek, he’s breathing, thank God, he’s breathing_ ), hoping to lift him onto the sehlat and get to a cave or even just a flatter, less exposed area to set up camp, when he hears a rasping sound behind him.

Jim turns just in time to see his sehlat stagger, cough, and fall over into the snow. With one last groan, the Tauntaun goes completely limp.

Great.

Jim grits his teeth. “Don’t have much time…. You might hate me for this, but your life’s more important.”

He puts the unconscious Vulcan down next to the sehlat’s body and pauses, panting. Which is when he hears—

“V’Ger….” Spock mumbles, and Jim’s head shoots up, his heart leaping. He’s still alive and functioning. It’s nonsense, as far as Jim can tell, but nonsense that means he’s _not dead_ , and the tiniest flicker of desperate hope surges inside him.

“Hang on, Spock,” Jim says quietly, unhooking his friend’s lightsaber. At least one of them knows how and when to use this thing. 

**“** Gol...” Spock says, and isn’t that place on Vulcan? Maybe not complete nonsense after all.

Still, it’s not anything that’s going to save his life, so Jim straightens up and ignites the saber, surprised by the sheer amount of effort it takes to keep the sword steady, and looks at the dead beast.

All at once he remembers tucking in for their first proper dinner at the rebel base after blowing up the Death Star, remembers how Spock’s eyes had flickered from his plate to his face and away, all within a moment.

“What?” he’d asked defensively.

Spock had shaken his head. “It is wrong to project my own convictions upon you.”

Jim had looked down at his meal. “You don’t like hamburgers?”

“You are eating the flesh of another living being,” Spock had explained. “A living being with a consciousness about which we continue to discover more with each passing year. According to Jedi teaching, animals have souls just the same as the intelligibly communicable races.”

“Not sure I believe in the soul at all, myself,” Jim had remarked, and Spock had just looked at him like he was pretty much hopeless. He added hastily, “I get what you’re saying, though. We have no idea how much animals understand, and on the chance that they _are_ aware of—well, anything—it’d be almost cannibalism to eat them.”

“Precisely,” said Spock, his tone surprised? or pleased? or maybe neither?

“But, uh,” said Jim, breaking whatever moment they were having (hell if he could figure it out). “Can I still eat it? I, um. Really love burgers.”

Spock’s expression had been bemused, maybe, or chagrined. Or maybe nothing at all. “You may, Jim.”

It was that same empathy and unguarded marvel of life that had gotten them repeatedly into trouble over the years. Probably the same curiosity that had gotten them into trouble this time. And it was arguably the most irritating, most inconvenient, most wonderful, most loveable part of him.

Spock had been uncomfortable so much as eating at the same table with someone eating an animal. If he knew Jim had stuffed him _inside_ the belly of one, even for his own self-preservation…

“Gol… **“** Spock mumbles again, flinching away from something, as if in a nightmare.

If it really came to a conflict between Spock’s kindness and his life, of course Jim would first sacrifice his kindness. He’d sacrifice _anything_. But if he set up tent immediately and administered the stim-shots and… damn him to the seven hells but it might just be possible to save Spock’s life without debasing any corpses.

“Kolinahr…” Spock moans, and Jim blows out a hard breath and sheathes the lightsaber’s blade back into its hilt.

“Jesus, Spock,” he huffs, dropping to his knees to start setting up the emergency tent, squinting through the bitter storm. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

Spock doesn’t reply, of course, and Jim mutters, “If you don’t kill yourself first.”

\---

It takes the emergency tent, the extra space heater, the temperature-controlled sleeping bag, and three stim-shots before Spock says anything resembling Standard, and when he does, it’s a weak, bleary-eyed, “Jim?”

Jim sits back on his heels, flooded with the relief of Spock finally talking, finally recognizing him, after hours of careful supervision and keeping his fingers on his pulse and worrying, while the wind howling outside the tent.

“Yeah!” he says, far too excited, and immediately lowers his voice to something more soothing. “Yeah, it’s me, buddy. How’re you feeling?”

“C-cold,” Spock manages, and a pang of worry sparks up in Jim’s chest. Whoever thought it was a good idea for a native desert-dweller to follow the rebels to the coldest planet in the system…

Oh yeah. That had been Spock.

“Yup, that’s pretty much the tagline of this new base location,” says Jim, forcing cheer into his voice. “But luckily we’re inside now. All we gotta do is relax, and keep talking. Can you do that?”

“C-cold,” Spock whispers again, which might be a response, or he might not be hearing Jim at all. “You are so cold. Frozen.”

The Jedi-in-training reaches one hand out of the sleeping bag, reaching for Jim, or maybe for something else entirely, and Jim catches it, entwines their fingers. His skin is so cold it’s almost painful.

“’Fraid you’ve got that backwards,” says Jim tightly, trying not to panic. “You’re the frozen one. You’re doing such a great impression of an ice cube right now, even Uhura will be impressed at our next team charades game. You want to impress Uhura, right?” He can’t help the note of desperation that creeps into his voice on the last word.

Spock’s eyelids flutter shut, his eyebrows furrowing as if in pain. “Late,” he mutters. “I am too late… You are frozen in… in carbon…”

The hell? Carbon? “Hey… hey, I’m right here, nobody’s frozen in carbon, all right?”

“I am so sorry, Jim,” comes the faint reply, and there is true anguish in his voice. “I must—kolinahr—”

No… no, this shouldn’t be happening, he’s slipped back into the nonsense far too fast. Jim searches frantically through his emergency pak for something else to use, but all he finds is food and water and more stim shots. And he’s already pushed the limit on those, barely avoiding sending Spock’s heart into overdrive and killing him without the snow’s help.

“Stay with me,” Jim finds himself pleading, brushing a stray hair out of his friend’s face. Somehow it feels wrong to let his usually-immaculate haircut fall into disarray. “Come on, Spock, stay with me, don’t go…”

The Vulcan’s eyes flutter open for a moment. “Do not worry, Jim. I am not in danger. I am warm.”

It is words that send a jolt of icy fear through Jim’s veins, knocking the air out of him as he remembers the first aid lessons Bones had insisted on giving him. As remembers Bones telling him that in the last moments of hypothermia, the body gives off an impression of warmth, gives the person the illusion of a painless, peaceful death even as their heart slowly stops beating and their lungs gradually shut down.

And Jim’s vision is swimming, his heart pounding a panicked rhythm in his chest, and he can’t let this happen, he _can’t_ , he’ll give anything to make Spock live, give his own life, his own— his own warmth.

Of course. Of _course._ Why didn’t he think of it before?

Jim quickly takes off shirt, ignoring the way the cold bites at him, even inside the tent, and climbs into the sleeping bag behind Spock, wrapping his arms around his stomach until they’re right up against each other. If Jim had full command of mental faculties he might laugh at the irony of this being the way he and Spock finally end up cuddling, after Jim imagining it for so long, or maybe he’d just panic some more. But Spock’s skin is so cold it’s almost burning, and the bag is so, so warm, and he’s so, so tired…

Jim’s eyes shoot open just in time, the realization hitting him all at once that he’d almost fallen asleep. He could still fall asleep, if he’s not careful. He could fall asleep and wake to a silent tent and a cold, lifeless body next to him—

 _No._ He has to stay awake and wait for the rescue team to arrive and give Spock another stim-shot in four hours. He’ll sleep when they’re found and safe and back at the base.

Spock makes a muffled, unintelligible sound in his sleep and shifts closer, pressing himself flush against Jim’s body, and the captain freezes, torn between moving away and holding Spock tighter to give him the warmth he obviously needs.

In the end he stays still and a moment later Spock rolls away, and Jim breathes a sigh of relief. Until, that is, a moment later, when he rolls closer again, right up against his body, and then shifts away, then closer, then away, almost like—

Oh. Oh _hell_.

And that’s all it takes, Jim’s completely hard, and Spock is still completely unconscious, still moving against him. Maybe even in the middle of a wet dream…?

 _Or more likely desperately needing your body warmth to survive but it hurts his frozen skin too much to do it all at once, you pervert,_ says an internal voice that sounds remarkably similar to Uhura.

Still, logic doesn’t make it _feel_ like any less of a wet dream.

Especially with Spock moving like that, back and forth against him, his breaths heavy, his fingers tightening on Jim’s arm in his sleep. All Jim can do is close his eyes and try not to move, almost whimpering with the exertion of staying still, cursing himself for being so damn horny all the damn time, even when Spock’s _life_ is in danger.

Finally _, finally_ Spock stops, falls quiet, his breaths even and his skin slightly warmer, and Jim is left biting his tongue and thinking about the least sexy things he can possibly imagine and harder than he’s ever been in his entire life.

At least there’s no way he’ll fall asleep now.

Jim lets out a long, shaky breath, closes his eyes, and braces himself for the long wait till morning.

**Author's Note:**

> If you ever want to talk about this fic or anything else, feel free to contact me here or at my [tumblr](http://famous-wwi-flying-ace.tumblr.com/), my home for fic previews and updates and cute pictures of cats.


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